Not Me
by LolaAnn
Summary: Dean is hit by a de-aging curse. The results are terrifying! Humor, Gen.
1. Not Me

A/N: Wrote this silly little fic over at livejournal a few weeks ago. It was inspired by a picture *see bookcover*. Decided I'd share it here too, since you can have your own bookcovers for stories now.

Disclaimer: Still don't own Supernatural and still not getting paid for this.

* * *

Dean shuffled to the bathroom half asleep, using the streetlight that seeped in through the sides of the motel curtains as a guide. Not that he needed it. No matter what part of the country they were in, these places were all the same. He could probably take a piss in one of these dumps with his eyes shut if he had to. And that was a damn good thing, because he couldn't remember the last time he was so friggin exhausted. He could barely hold his eyes open.

He was a little ashamed of himself to be quite honest. Here they were in New Orleans - just blocks from the French Quarter no less - and he'd drank exactly one beer, and even that was while in the room. After putting down the ghost of a hoodoo priestess last night, he'd been so wiped that he skipped dinner and went straight to bed. It was embarrassing. He must be getting old.

He didn't feel old though. Truth was he felt pretty awesome. Sure, he was tired, but it was a good tired. The kind of tired you get from a hard day of physical labor, without all the accompanying aches and pains.

Usually his back ached when he got out of bed. Years of digging up graves, being thrown into walls, and sleeping on shit mattresses tended to jack up a man's spine. Plus, most of his joints had been wrenched, popped, or plain ripped apart at one time or another and they all tended to complain loudest at around 5 A.M. But he heard nothing from them this morning, not even a peep. It was weird.

Another thing that was weird was the fact that his bladder was apparently now the size of a walnut. He'd literally almost pissed the bed. But on the other hand, his boxers had grown at least two sizes and kept trying to slide off his hips. He had to keep a grip on his waistband just to keep from mooning his unconscious brother on the way to the bathroom. Yeah, he realized his appetite had been crap lately, but surely he hadn't lost that much weight.

He really should take better care of himself, he decided. Eat right, drink less, exercise, sleep more - all that good stuff. In fact, maybe he should start right now, he thought as he splashed some cold water on his face in an effort to wake up. He could take a jog before breakfast. It had been years since he'd done that.

As he toweled off his face with one of the threadbare hand towels, he noticed something else. No stubble. None. His face was as smooth as a baby's butt. That was definitely not right. As far as he remembered, it had been two days since he'd last shaved. He should be rocking the full-on Don Johnson look right about now.

Dean dropped the towel and flipped on the bathroom light that he'd purposefully left off until now. What he saw in the mirror caused him to cry out involuntarily and it was by no means a manly type of scream. He couldn't help it. His reflection was quite possibly the most terrifying thing he'd ever laid eyes on. Something was going to die for this. Slow and bloody.

"You okay in there?" Sam called out in a muffled voice. It sounded like he was still lying face down in his pillow.

Dean didn't answer. He couldn't. He was hyperventilating. This was bad. Very, very bad. He kept a death grip on the sink as he leaned forward to examine the stranger in the mirror more closely. There was something familiar about this guy… unsettling familiar.

The bathroom door had been left ajar and his brother cautiously swung it the rest of the way open before letting loose with a scream that wasn't much more masculine than the one he'd let out the moment before. The shocked expression on his face was comical, but switched quickly to rage.

Good times.

His ginormous little brother was going to severely beat his ass and there was no way Dean could hold his own against him in this body. He was screwed.

"Who the hell are you?" Sam demanded angrily. "Better question – _what_ the hell are you? And what the hell have you done with my brother?"

Dean held up his hands in an effort to ward-off the pissed off Hulk that looked like it wanted to rip him a new one.

"Dude!" he exclaimed in a voice that was a little too high. "It's me. I swear. Sammy, you've gotta help me. Something awful's happened."

Sam didn't look convinced and Dean braced himself for the inevitable beatdown, but Sam just stood there blocking the doorway with his freaky broad shoulders as he stared. After a few beats of silence, he deflated and his expression went from pure fury to amazement.

"Dean… _dude!_ You're like fourteen/fifteen years-old again. You've been… I don't know… shrunk or something. Somebody's turned back the clock on you, man."

Dean snapped his head back around to examine his reflection once again.

No way. No freaking way. Okay, yeah, there was something familiar about that face, but that wasn't a younger version of him staring back at him. This kid was way too pretty to be him. He looked like a girl, and a good looking one at that.

"Hell no!" he squeaked in protest. He'd actually squeaked. It was like his voice was changing again. This was horrifying.

"This ain't me, Sammy," he pleaded in an effort to convince himself. "It's… Dude, I've been turned into the lead singer from a boy band!"

Then Sam huffed a laughed. It wasn't much of one, but Dean could tell he was trying to control himself. The appearance of the dimples always gave him away. The son of a bitch thought this was funny! This was the worst thing that had ever happened to Dean friggin EVER, and Sam was enjoying himself.

"Dean, this is you," Sam insisted as he gestured toward him. "Look at yourself. That's you!"

He leaned forward to stare at the kid in front of him again. "Uh, uh," he denied firmly as he watched the pretty boy in the mirror shake its head. He pointed a finger accusingly at the reflection. "That's not me, dude. _Heeell no!_ I don't know what that thing is, but it's not me. It's blond! And it has Angelina Jolie's lips! I never looked like that. Come on!"

Sam shook his head and folded his arms across his chest, pasting on the infuriatingly know-it-all smirk that never failed to piss Dean off.

"You looked _exactly_ like that. It's you, Dean," he said smugly. "Do I have to go out and dig through that old box of pictures in the trunk to prove it? Or do you want to figure out how that hoodoo priestess' spirit managed to curse you and try to undo it?"

Dean turned around so that his back was to the mirror and he didn't have to look at the terrifying image any longer. Otherwise, he was going to freak the fuck out and it wasn't going to be dignified. He searched for something smartassy to say that would wipe the amusement from Sam's face when his expression suddenly turned somber.

"Dean, what if this is a Benjamin Button thing?" his brother asked cautiously. "What if you keep getting younger? What if I have to change your diapers?"

Dean smirked at Sam's worried expression. The guy looked like he'd been sucking on lemons.

"That'd serve you right. I could get some payback for all the times I had to change yours. You were like a miniature poop factory, dude. It was horrible!"

"At least I didn't look like a girl," his brother taunted back.

"Hey! I never looked like this! Not really. Hoodoo Casper threw more whammy on top to make the curse extra hilarious. It's all part of the spell, Sammy."

"Uh huh… Whatever you say."

Dean pushed past Sam and went to try and find some clothes that would fit. They needed to move their asses and figure out how to break this curse. Now! Because maybe he couldn't beat Sam's ass at the moment, but he sure as shit could shoot him and it was only going to take a few more wise cracks to push him to it.


	2. Not Cool

A/N: I usually don't like to wait so long between updates on a fic, but RL has been insane lately. This chapter switches to Sam's POV. I also have the next and final chapter done, but need to do a little polishing. Will hopefully post that tomorrow.

* * *

**Not Cool**

Sam often accused Dean of being childish. It wasn't like there wasn't precedence for it. His older brother still liked to watch cartoons, thought toilet humor was the height of hilarity, acted like a horny twelve-year-old whenever he spotted a pair of nice breasts, and pulled some of the most juvenile pranks known to man. Seriously, who else would punk an angel with a whoopee cushion?

Still, Dean was always an adult when he needed to be. To be fair, Sam knew that much of his brother's immature behavior could be explained away by the fact that he never really got to be a kid when it counted. He'd always had too much responsibility on his shoulders. He had to enjoy childish things in bits and pieces, whenever and however he could manage them. Plus, acting the fool had always been one of Dean's coping mechanisms. It was how he dealt with what no human being should ever be asked to deal with. Sometimes it was annoying as hell, but it was all very understandable.

But this. This was a whole new ballgame.

It all started that morning when Dean woke up looking like he was all of fourteen/fifteen years old again. Even so, he still possessed all the memories and knowledge of a thirty-something man. So, they both assumed the only challenge would be finding a way to reverse whatever curse he was under. And if the rest of the day hadn't gone straight to shit, Sam would have found this to be the most hilarious curse ever.

It turned out that a certain big, badass hunter seemed to have a very distorted memory of how he looked when he was younger. Dean spent most of the morning insisting that the pretty teen boy in the mirror was not really him. Instead, it was a girled-up version of him, cooked-up especially to give the curse more kick. Because there was "no freaking way" he actually looked like a refugee from a boy band when he was a teen. "NO FREAKING WAY!"

Sam couldn't help himself; he had to give Dean hell. He was practically required to, because his brother would have been merciless if the shoe was on the other foot. Therefore, he pulled out the shoebox of old photos from the trunk of the Impala, found some choice shots of Dean as a teenager, and proceeded to taunt away.

_And Dean's brilliant defense? _Clearly this hoodoo priestess' spirit was so incredibly powerful that she was not only able to de-age him, she was also able to give him a few extra X chromosomes, AND alter all past photographic evidence of what he _really_ looked like. Apparently this former peddler of run-of-the-mill curses was practically a god.

The situation rapidly became less amusing as soon as they both headed out into the motel's parking lot. This wasn't the nicest motel they'd ever stayed in. To be frank, it was a real crap hole. Unfortunately, it was also all they could afford at the moment. They were between credit cards and near the very tourist-heavy New Orleans' French Quarter - a place where everything was notoriously overpriced. There were simply no decent places to stay in their price range. Sometimes it happened; they just had to go with it.

Dean had done his best to cinch up his too-loose jeans with a belt, but it was obvious that the clothes he was wearing were way too big for him. The burly, bearded biker they passed took one look at the two of them and immediately decided that there was only one reason an unusually pretty teenage boy would be coming out of the no-tell motel with a full-grown man whose clothes he also appeared to be wearing.

Sam wasn't going to repeat what was said, not even in his own head. Some things were best locked in the vault and left alone, never to be revisited again. Problem was, Dean wouldn't just walk away. His reaction was extreme to the point that he attacked a three-hundred-pound biker while in his much smaller body. He was still quite the scrapper, but the biker definitely had the advantage.

Naturally, Sam had to step in and there was a huge throwdown right there in the middle of the parking lot. Luckily for Sam, the biker decided to give him the worst end of it since he was a) a grown man and b) obviously some sort of sick pervert.

It made no sense for Dean to go off like that. They were two young men who traveled together, so they were used to snide comments and insinuations about their sexual orientation. Usually, they both laughed it off, or sometimes Dean made a smartass remark of his own, but they never started a brawl over it. They were both comfortable enough with themselves not to let it get to them, and they usually had way bigger problems to deal with anyway.

But, this time, Dean just had to go off the deep end, and now Sam had a broken nose and busted up knuckles to show for it. Not to mention the fact that they barely got out of there before the police arrived.

The getaway was another fun experience. As usual, Dean was in possession of the keys and Sam didn't exactly have time to argue with him about who should drive. Cue Dean's impromptu reenactment of Steve McQueen's classic chase scene from _Bullitt_. The ride was so extreme and horrifying that Sam was half-convinced he'd been hit with an aging curse, because now he felt at least twenty years older.

_Jesus Christ!_

Sam just wanted to go straight to the basement of the building where they'd burned the spirit's bones, figure out how Dean had been cursed and what they needed to do to reverse it.

A simple, solid plan.

But his brother was hungry and it wasn't just his normal overactive appetite at work. No, this time he pitched a whining fit and claimed he was literally starving to death. He was going to DIE if he didn't get some food.  
_Why didn't Sam care? Why did he have to be such a dick about everything? Didn't he have any concern for his poor starving brother?_

The world was definitely coming to an end.

Fine. They went to a diner first. Crisis averted... or so you'd think.

Their waitress was pretty. She was probably about twenty-five with a thick brown ponytail, friendly smile, and an impressive show of cleavage. Definitely Dean's type. He flirted and she was flattered, but obviously saw him as nothing more than a cute kid. Whatever - it didn't really matter. At least Dean had something to occupy him, and had stopped whining and bitching for five minutes.

Then she came back to take their order and Sam made the mistake of asking about the daily specials. They were on limited funds and they needed to make their dollars stretch as far as possible. It was a perfectly normal thing to do.

"Dude," Dean hissed under his breath the moment the waitress walked away. "Why did you have to embarrass me like that? Now she thinks we're broke."

"We are broke," Sam informed him dryly. Dean was well aware of that fact. What was his deal?

"Sometimes I friggin' hate you! You're so stupid. There's no way you'll ever be cool."

Dean's face had actually turned red, either from embarrassment, anger, or both. The whole thing was absurd. That's when the realization finally hit him.

Dean _was_ a teenager. Not just physically, but mentally too. It made a weird kind of sense.

Sam had taken a psychology class in college and he remembered learning something about the teenage brain. Apparently it wasn't just experience and memories that made you an adult, the structure of the brain itself also came into play. The brain hadn't finished forming all the right paths and connections yet. In a sense, a teenager was physiologically incapable of being a fully rational being. They couldn't really grasp long term consequences, they were impulsive, they were overly emotional…

They were _exactly_ the type to start a brawl over an off-color remark, drive like a lunatic for no good reason, angst over a late meal, and become hopelessly embarrassed by anyone more than ten years older than them.

Shit!

Needless to say, Sam called it a major win when he managed to make it through the meal without causing Dean to die of shame. But there was another battle to be had when they left the restaurant.

His brother didn't seem to want to accept that it wasn't a good idea for an underage boy to drive a car full of deadly and highly illegal weapons around, especially when he was determined to pretend to be a stunt driver.

Sam wisely settled on a game of rock-paper-scissors, winner gets the keys. Dean's habit of throwing scissors every single time was long standing, and Sam easily won by throwing a rock. Of course, he had to listen to some grumbling about both that and the general unfairness of life, but hopefully they'd be able avoid a stay in a federal penitentiary.

Dean's epic getaway from the motel had taken them well into the outskirts of New Orleans. With workday traffic and some roadwork to contend with, they were almost an hour getting back to the source of the curse.

The surly teenager had almost immediately complained of being tired and _bored_, so he climbed into the back seat to take a nap. Sam supposed that made sense, kids needed more sleep than adults and they'd both been up since very early that morning. Besides, maybe he'd be less cranky after a nap.

Once they'd finally gotten back to the scene of the crime, Sam found a parking place on the street not far from the building they needed to check out. Then turned around to wake his brother.

He couldn't see anything but a bundle of cotton and denim back there. He knew his clothes were too big, but he was surprised he could manage to burrow that deeply into them.

"Dean… wake-up," he called out. "We're here."

There was no response, so Sam reached back to shake him.

"Dean! Get up, man. We need to get moving."

A blond head struggled to emerge from the t-shirt it was buried inside, and squinted at Sam with tired and very resentful eyes.

Those green eyes boring into him with the irritation of someone who does not want to wake-up were definitely Dean's. Problem was, they were the eyes of a much younger Dean than the one that had crawled in the back to take a nap. Sam was going to guess this one was about five.


	3. Not Fair

A/N: This is pretty cracky, fair warning. I've had an insane week and the more stressed I am in RL, the more ridiculous I get in fiction. It's a strange phenomenon. Anyway, hope you enjoy.

* * *

"Hey little guy. Please say you recognize me," Sam said in his softest, most gentle voice - the one he saved for traumatized victims and little children. Knowing his brother, he was aware that his 'nice guy/kid voice' was probably not cool in this situation, but it just popped out that way.

"Course I know your stupid ass," a small voice snapped back. Dean's huge child's eyes immediately widened at the high-pitched sound of his own speech. He held tiny hands up in front of his face and stared at them in slack jawed horror. "Dude, what the fuck?!"

It was comical. Sam had to laugh. It was either that or cry, because seriously – _what the fuck? _Dean was cursing like a sailor in this melodious little child's voice. It was so, so very wrong. What made it worse was that his little freckled nose got all scrunched up when he scowled so furiously and it was just… well... _adorable._

"'m a fwiggin rug rat, aren't I? How old 'm I, Sammy? Tell me. 'm scared to look." There was definitely panic in his tone.

Sam had to think about that. He wasn't sure. He didn't know anything about kids and he certainly didn't remember Dean ever being this small. His brother had always seemed larger than life, even when they were both children. One thing was certain, he sure as hell didn't remember him ever pronouncing 'rug rat' as 'wug wat'.

"I dunno," he finally admitted with a shrug. "Four, maybe five? _God, Dean, you're so cute!" _The last part just fell out of his mouth. Sam couldn't help himself. He immediately paid for it when a tiny foot lashed out at him as he leaned over into the backseat, catching him on the nose. The same nose that a three-hundred-pound biker had recently broken.

"How's that for cute!" the little voice yelled. Once again, Dean's mouth didn't seem to want to pronounce words properly anymore. Cute sounded more like _Cue._

Sam slapped both hands over his nose. "Ow shit!" he cursed, but was pretty sure it came out as something snotty, nasally, and barely resembling English. He pulled his hands away from his face and found that his nose was once again bleeding. "Dammit, Dean!" he snapped, pointing to his nose. "Happy now?"

Dean scrunched up his little face again, but this time it was much less furious and much more… well, _pitiful_ was a good word for it. Now his bottom lip was starting to quiver and those big eyes looked awfully glassy and _oh, no…_

"Sorwy, Sammy," he managed to say before the damn completely busted. "Sonuvabitshhh!" he sobbed. "Why 'm I cryin'?"

Somehow, that managed to make Sam feel like the worst person ever born, even though he was the one with the bleeding nose. "It's okay, Dean," he said as he tried to reach out to comfort him. It seemed like the right thing to do. He was just a kid now.  
But the little monster responded to Sam's attempt at affection with a flurry of smacks and kicks. Maybe he was wrong about Dean's age. Maybe he was younger, still a toddler. Jeez! What was he supposed to do with him?

"Don' lookit me, Sam," Dean sniffed pitifully. "Somethin's wong. 'm batshit."

There was a collection of fast food napkins in the glove box, so Sam grabbed a handful, saved a few for his bleeding nose, and handed the rest back silently. Something needed to be done about that snot bubble.

"You're not batshit, Dean. You're a little kid. Your brain's different. _Everything's_ different. I noticed it when you were a teenager… and now it's just… _worse_. You can't control your emotions."

"I'm like the Increbiddle Hulk," Dean agreed somberly. His voice had a sweet lilt to it that totally worked against the thoughtful crinkle in his brow.

Sam had never had to work so hard to swallow a laugh. _Never._ It was physically painful.

"I needa dwink," Dean added with a deep sigh. He sounded like a baby Elmer Fudd. Now was not the time to mention that the speech center of his brain had obviously been affected too.

"I think there's some bottled water in the cooler," Sam offered.

_"__Dude."_

"Dean, no. Just, no. You probably only weigh like thirty pounds."

"I could do lite beer," he argued back. A bit of a whine was beginning to seep into his tone. _Uh oh._

"You could do alcohol poisoning and I could do prison. It's not happening."

Sam felt the front seat jolt from the impressive force of Dean's kick.

"I hate you," he hissed, then crossed his chubby arms in front of him. Even though he was incredibly cute, it was obvious he'd make a mean little drunk.

"Stay right there," Sam warned and Dean actually stuck out his tongue at him. Jesus, this regression thing was weird.

He quickly ran around to the trunk and popped open the cooler that they always kept at least half-stocked. He quickly pushed the beer bottles aside, but paused between a bottle of water and a can of generic Coke.  
A little kid like Dean probably shouldn't have a lot of caffeine, but then again, Sam was starting to suspect that falling asleep was a very bad thing. Twice already, Dean had woken up younger than he was when he went to sleep. Could be a coincidence, but he wasn't taking that chance and ending up with a squalling infant. Dean was getting the store-brand Coke.

Sam slid back behind the steering wheel and pulled the tab on the can of _Sam's Choice Cola_ before handing it into the backseat. _Sam's choice_ indeed - he'd just consciously chosen to deal with an over-caffeinated, foulmouthed toddler. God help him. This really was the curse that kept on giving.

He watched as his brother held the can with both hands and practically inhaled it. Sadly, a lot of it went down his chin and onto his now giant t-shirt.

That confirmed another suspicion. Dean's usually impressive fine motor skills were definitely impaired now as well. The sheer temptation to spend all his time taping this on his cellphone was excruciating. He had to admit it, his pain-in-the-ass big brother was one cute little kid. Plus, the footage would be priceless when it came to blackmailing material. _Maybe later._

"So... what's the plan?" Sam asked aloud, mostly talking to himself.

"Uh, bwake the curse," was the sarcastic little answer from the backseat.

Sam took a deep breath. He wasn't going to go there. It was cruel and highly immature to taunt little children with speech impediments, even when they were technically your over-thirty brother who lived to give you crap.

"Okay... we've got to get in that basement, but I'm not sure what to do with you. They thought I was a perv for having teen-you at the motel. Imagine what it's going to look like when I'm carrying toddler-you around half-naked, dressed only in a grown-man's t-shirt?"

"Not carryin' me."

_"__Dean!"_ Sam took a deep breath and summoned his patience. "Your boots are now roughly the size of your head. These are the streets of New Orleans, you're not walking around barefoot. You've partied here. You know the kinds of things that get tossed in these streets."

Dean made a sour face. "Used wubbers… sometimes stuff gets peed on. But there's wotsa boobies," he added on a more positive note.

At least no one else could hear this weird conversation - _that_ was the only positive note Sam could come up with.

"So are you gonna let me carry you?"

"I subbose," he relented with a pout. "But only till we get inside."

"Deal," Sam agreed with a relieved sigh. Now he just had to figure out how to do this without drawing too much attention.  
Luckily, this street wasn't the main hub of tourist activity, but there were still people here and there. He'd have to wait for the all-clear and pick the lock really fast before coming back for Dean. Otherwise, he was going to prison. There was no respectable explanation for a grown man taking a half-naked kid into an abandoned building – not a single one.

"Just hold tight, man. I'll be back for you. Signal if you see someone."

Dean held up his pistol, which looked huge and very unsteady in his tiny hands. "Don' worwy, Sammy. I gotcha back," he nodded seriously.

Diminished fine motor skills, emotional regression, and a complete and utter lack of impulse control – none of those things were a reason he should panic, right? _Yep, he was panicking._ He was going to pass out.

"Dean," he said in a carefully controlled voice as he slowly reached toward the back. "Man, hand over the gun."

"No," he refused, squinting his eyes dangerously. "Not fair! My gun, Sammy."

Exactly how did one reason with a deadly hunter trapped in the mind and body of a toddler? How did one reason with a regular toddler? He had no clue.  
This curse really should have worked the other way around. Dean, he realized, actually had experience in this area. In fact, Sam was starting to have flashbacks of throwing some very stubborn fits on both Dad and his brother, and it turned out that Dean was actually better at dealing with him than Dad ever was. But how did he do it? It was hard to remember that far back. He'd just have to wing it.

"Tell ya what, let me hold your gun for a while and I'll get you a beer after we're done in that basement." _Please let the curse be broken by then._

Dean seemed to be considering this, because his face was screwed-up in thought. "Kay," he finally said. "But if you twy an' welch on me, I kick yer ass."

"Fine. Hand it over."

The handover was quite possibly the longest two seconds of Sam's life. Dean was trying to do it right and hand it over grip first, but it was all very clumsy and Sam wasn't 100% sure the safety was still on. He felt like he was MacGyver trying to defuse a nuclear bomb with a paperclip. His nerves were never going to be the same after this ordeal.

"Okay. _Holy shit," _he breathed once the pistol was in his hands and the safety was re-engaged. "Let's do this thing, Dean. Remember, as soon as I get the door open, I'm coming back for you. Be ready."

Dean nodded. "I'm weddy."  
_Jesus Christ._

XXXXXXXX

They actually managed to get inside without being spotted. Then came the really hard part.  
Figuring out how the hell Dean had been cursed while preventing him from being cursed with something even more horrible.  
He wanted to touch _everything! _  
Sam had to smack his hand a thousand times and Dean was getting angrier and crankier by the second. It felt like they'd been in that basement for years and they'd made exactly zero progress.

"Dean, please concentrate. I know it's hard, but you have to try and retrace your steps." When he got no response, Sam glanced around trying to spot where he'd wandered off to now.

He was sitting on the dirty floor, playing his own little game of war with two freeze-dried chicken feet - growling and _rawr _sound effects included.  
"Dude! _What the hell?!"_

Dean frowned and sheepishly set the feet aside. "They're cool," he said with a pouty shrug.

"Yes, fascinating. Now concentrate, Dean. One more time - what did you do when you walked through this part of the basement?"

He pursed his lips and scanned the room thoughtfully. Sam had his attention for the moment, but who knew how long it would last.

"The miwwow!" he exclaimed and jumped up to point across the room excitedly.

"The, huh?"

"Miwwow, asshat," Dean repeated with a clearly implied 'duh'. He honestly didn't realize how he sounded.

Sam followed his line of sight and his eyes fell on what looked like a free standing mirror draped in a sheet.

"Dean, you didn't look in that mirror, did you?" he snapped a little too gruffly. Great, now he looked like he was going to turn on the faucets again.

"Had wettuce in my teef," he sniffed. "Didn't touch it, just wooked. You're a dick," he added resentfully.

He patted his brother's tiny shoulder. "Yeah, Dean, I'm a dick…. So, what do you think? Is that our bad guy?"

He stood there, deep in thought, with his little nose crinkled for a long moment. His cola stained t-shirt was touching the floor like a dress.  
Sam really should get a picture of this. He was reaching for his camera phone when Dean made a decision.

"Yep, gotta be. Now we bwake the bastard."

Sam's plan of getting a picture of little Dean's serious-face was put on hold when he realized he was heading straight for the mirror. He quickly ran and scooped him up and away from the object before he could get a good kick in.

"Dean, no! You could make things worse."

"But Bwoody Mary!" he argued. "Bwoody Mary… bwake miwwow!" He was kicking and struggling against Sam, clearly agitated.

"I remember, but chill out. Maybe that's not the way this time. Let me do some research first, okay?"

XXXXXXXXX

The research was a blast. This lady kept good journals, but there were lots of them and aside from the fact that Dean had zero attention span, he also seemed to have lost the ability to read anything but the simplest words. Worst of all, he was starting to whine about being sleepy and rub his eyes a lot.

Sam had no choice but to lock him in an empty broom closet, ignore the cursing, and go back for the cooler as quickly as he could. There was almost a six pack of cola left in there. Surely that would keep little Dean awake for a while.

Four cokes, an old bucket filled with pee, and what felt like centuries later - Sam hit paydirt. Not a moment too soon either, because Dean and the chicken feet were putting on an impromptu Zeppelin concert, complete with head banging.

"_Finally!"_ Sam exclaimed. "I've got it. You won't believe this!"

Dean paused mid _Immigrant Song_ and pointed his chicken foot microphone at him. "This better be good, dude."

"It's actually a love curse! Sorta… I mean, it was done out of love." He gestured to the old journal he held. "It says right here that she cursed this mirror for her sister because she was depressed about getting older and losing her figure and all that. Apparently, the curse was meant to make you appreciate where you are in life. So, the good news is that it was meant to be reversed."

"Okay, so do we bwake the miwwow now?" Dean asked with excitement glowing in his eyes. Obviously, he _really _wanted to break something.

"NO!"

Now Sam finally understood why he was Lucifer's vessel. Only the devil could make a little kid look _that_ pitiful and downtrodden. He certainly had a new respect for his brother's patience with him as a child.

"No, Dean, sorry. It's just… you're stuck if you break it. You have to say a few words in front of the mirror. _That's all._ Then the spells broken."

"Can't bweak the miwwow?" he asked sadly. Clearly that was THE most important part of the entire conversation, maybe even THE most important thing in the history of the universe. Patience, Sam. Think patient.

"Once the spell's broken, you can blow it away with your shotgun. Throw it off a bridge. Whatever you wanna do, Dean. I promise."

Dean grinned like that was the best thing he'd ever heard. "Cool! What do I say?"

"Just give me a minute."

How to do this? He'd have to uncover the mirror, but he certainly didn't want to look into it himself. He took a few steps to the side and back so that he'd be out of the reflection when the glass was revealed.

"Okay, Dean. Go ahead and pull off the sheet, but be careful. Don't break it."

"Wasn't gunna," Dean pouted back. Sam wisely decided to ignore his tone.

"I see myself," he called out. He sounded very shocky. "Fuck, Sammy. That's me. 'm little."

"Yeah, Dean, that's you. Just listen, okay. You have to repeat everything I say. Got it?"  
When Sam didn't get a response, he realized his brother was lost, staring at his own reflection.  
"Dean! Focus! It's almost over."

"Kay," he replied back softly. He sounded very shaky. Dammit.

"Here we go…. Say exactly what I say…. _I am a beautiful woman."_

"What?!" Apparently that snapped Dean out of his funk.

"Yes, Dean, that's what it says here."

"Not sayin' it."

"Dean."

"Fine…. _I am a bootiful dude_."

Hopefully that would be good enough.

_"__I love my body and I love the wisdom of my years."_

"Seriously?" Dean groaned, but he did his best to repeat it.

The rest of the incantation was along the same lines. All about embracing your age and loving yourself. Things he never, ever expected to hear his brother say. Finally - thank God - he repeated the last line.

"I embwace my feewings and pwaise the goddess…. _Oh for fuck's sake._"

Sam held his breath, hoping Dean's little ad libs wouldn't hurt.

With no puff of smoke or fanfare whatsoever, his fully-grown brother was now standing there in only his t-shirt. They were both quiet for a few moments. This entire day had been so completely beyond awkward.

"Dude, I Stuart Smalley'd this bitch," Dean finally said proudly.

"Huh?"

"Nevermind, you have no sense of culture. My ass is hanging out," he remarked as an afterthought.

"Among other things," Sam observed dryly.

"Then don't look."

"I'm trying not to, trust me." Sam was _so_ tired. He'd never been this tired. What a day! He was clearly not cut out for dealing with children. "Can you just bust the damn mirror so we can get the hell out of here? I'll go grab your jeans."

Dean grinned happily. Even as an adult, he clearly still loved the idea of breaking things. So, Sam left him to it and headed toward the stairs. He realized when he hit the first step that he hadn't taken a single photo or video. _Well, that sucked._

"Dude, you owe me a beer," his once again 'older' brother called after him.


End file.
